When I first laid eyes on him I was sure he was a derelict at best or a drug addict at worst. He was stretched out on a recliner in the hospital corridor--long wild hair framed what little I could see of his face, which was bottomed off by an equally scary amount of unkempt beard. Periodically he’d cock an ear in the direction of the room across the hall and then resume his attempt to rest. He remained silent throughout the night and just before sunrise he rose and peeked into the room at the patient lying in the first bed. He then slung his battered backpack over his shoulder and slipped out of sight.

I watched all this from my vantage point in the hospital room next to my father’s bedside, and this routine repeated itself for the next several nights. Finally one morning the mysterious corridor inhabitant actually entered the hospital room and sat down next to the patient in the first bed. He carried on a spirited conversation with the patient about the new car he had just purchased and the tract of land he had just acquired overlooking one of the most scenic spots in the country. They discussed his plans for the future and mainly the arrival of his newest daughter.

The mystery caregiver was a former attorney who had decided to leave the corporate world behind in favor of living a life in nature. His wife had just given birth, and he knew that if his father (the patient) got wind of the fact that he was spending his nights at the hospital watching over him instead of at home with his wife and new baby, his father would throw a fit.